


You Go to My Head

by Delphi



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, M/M, Object Insertion, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you trust me?" Amon and a dangerous weapon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Go to My Head

"Do you trust me?"

Cold metal and warm breath caress his bare shoulder. Wen is naked in the planning room, his clothes neatly folded at his feet and his hands braced on the table. He is holding very still.

"Yes," he says, the word rising from the depths of his chest, more fervent than any oath he has ever sworn in his life.

The end of his own kali stick brushes his cheek. He refuses to look down to see how close Amon's other hand is to the lightning generator. He shuts his eyes instead and opens his mouth.

He can feel the heat of Amon's body as it presses against his back. Amon is still fully dressed; Amon is always fully dressed, but Wen knows his form by sight and fleeting second-hand touches far better than he does that of any other man he's bedded. 

He is neither an innocent nor a romantic. He can imagine the sort of damage that makes a man cover himself from head to foot. It doesn't matter. He would tell Amon that if he could—that he would never draw away from him. He would never be disgusted.

But he cannot give the thought voice. Instead, he says it in the laxness of his limbs as he yields to the invasion. His jaw stretches wide as the kali stick pushes into his mouth, as it knocks against his teeth, as it nudges the back of his throat. 

He gets it good and wet.

* * *

His lieutenant is a dragon, a lean and deadly serpent charmed into submission. Wen's body is a weapon made of flesh: muscle and bone inexhaustibly fuelled by principle. 

He slides two fingers down from the hollow of Wen's throat, down his chest and stomach, to where his sex is hot and straining. He can hear the dry sound of a hard swallow.

His lieutenant is a beautiful martyr. Wen does not flinch as the kali stick, glinting with spit, pushes slowly into him. There is only a long, heavy exhalation, and then his head tips forward, drawing tight the bands of muscle between his shoulders. His hands twitch just once, fingertips seeking purchase on the tabletop.

Noatak watches hungrily as Wen's body cedes to him, hole stretched obscenely and thighs faintly trembling. His gloves soon glint with the slick fluid dripping from Wen's sex.

His lieutenant—their shared philosophy embodied, letting himself be breached with a weapon of his own devising. 

Wen shifts his stance, pushing back against him. "Please..."

And here is the beauty of it all. That word, uttered in a voice that is low and husky and full of want, has not been bought with blood. There is no need for bending to persuade this dangerous man to his purpose. Here is the proof that words and will are all that are needed to change the world.

"Anything you want," he says, twisting the kali stick and closing his eyes to savour Wen's heated cry.

Such trust.


End file.
